Lessons In Leadership Part 1
Some journeys begin with a clear map and a precise destination. Others begin with an SUV, a new TomTom GPS, and an address on a notepad - mine began with the latter.
When I joined Rea Bana National Institute (Rea Bana) in South Africa, I thought I was stepping into just another job—a role that looked glamorous on paper, a chance to make a difference from behind a desk, perhaps. But what awaited me was far more complex. I wasn’t stepping into a position. I was driving headfirst into the raw, unpredictable heart of leadership—complete with its trials, conflicts, and lessons that would stretch far beyond what any leadership school could teach.
A Mosaic of Struggles and Dreams
Rea Bana isn’t your typical organization. It is not the typical organisation contained neatly in a head office with polished floors, high visibility display screens and tidy spreadsheets. No, it is a living, breathing puzzle of over 200 organizations scattered across distant landscapes—some struggling to carve out space in a world that was changing faster than they could keep up, others adapting swiftly and soaring ahead as if the winds were made for them. Some of the organisations operated from sleek office complexes with modern facilities, while others made do in rundown buildings with barely functional amenities. A few operated from makeshift spaces tucked behind dusty roads, and some held their meetings beneath the open sky, their only conference room defined by shade and shared resolve.
On paper, my role was straightforward: engage these organizations, assess their needs, offer support. But life, as I quickly learned, never unfolds neatly on paper. Long road trips became my new normal. I’d punch an address into my GPS, book a B&B based on a couple of glowing reviews and blurry photos, and hit the open road. Sometimes, the B&B was a delightful surprise—just like the pictures, maybe even better. Other times, well, let’s just say the online photos had been very generous. It was like meeting someone from a dating app who looked great in their profile picture—only to realize over dinner that the photo was from twenty years ago. But those nights, spent under mismatched linens or sharing stories with strangers over home-cooked meals, became part of the tapestry of this adventure.
I met people whose languages I couldn’t speak, yet somehow, we communicated through laughter, gestures, and through the universal language of shared purpose. There’s something humbling about standing in front of a group, trying to explain a strategy with nothing but a smile, a few well-rehearsed words, and a lot of hope. But in those moments, we connected—across language, race, culture, and experience.
The Rocky Roads to Connection
One trip, though, took me deeper than most. The road to the community was more suggestion than reality—a rough, unforgiving trail carved into the hillside, with ruts deep enough to swallow a tire whole. My SUV rattled and groaned in protest with every turn, lacking the suspension, the clearance—frankly, the courage—for such a journey. We paused halfway, unsure whether to push on.
The people joked we had two options: get a donkey
or hike the rest of the way. The image of us riding a donkey in our urban wears
felt too absurd not to laugh at, so we opted for the hike. It was long.
Grueling. The sun bore down mercilessly, and the dust clung to every inch of
exposed skin. But somewhere along that uphill climb, with sweat streaking our
faces and legs aching, something shifted.
Walking those rocky paths made it impossible to ignore the barriers faced by the communities the organisation served. The distance wasn’t just physical—it was systemic, economic, cultural. And trudging through those hills, I couldn’t just be a visitor. I became part of their struggle, if only for that day.
And yet, amidst the challenges, there was beauty—startling, breathtaking beauty. The countrysides unfolded like a painting: rolling hills cloaked in green, sunrises that set the sky aflame, sunsets that bathed the world in gold. There were moments when I stood on a ridge and watched the ocean kiss the horizon, waves rolling endlessly under a sky so vast it felt like possibility itself. Those scenes stayed with me. They reminded me why we do what we do—not just to solve problems but to preserve the hope and the beauty that life, even in its toughest places, still holds.
Cracks Beneath the Surface
But not all the
cracks were in the roads.
With each
journey, it became clearer that Rea Bana itself was fractured. Teams operated in silos, communication strained at best, non-existent at worst. Offices bristled
with quiet resentment, alliances formed along fault lines of personal interest.
Leadership structures stood in name only—titles without traction. It wasn’t always malicious; often, it was the silent grip of survival instincts.
Change didn’t come with a grand announcement or
sweeping reforms. It came quietly, like whispers in the corridors, the uneasy
exchanges over shared meals, the tired glances in team meetings that seemed to
ask: Is this
really how it’s meant to be?
When the chance arose to lead an organisational
turnaround effort, it wasn’t a promotion for me—it was standing at the edge of a
crumbling bridge with no guarantee that the other side even existed. The
board’s support was minimal. Resources were lean. But conviction, I had. And
one more thing that mattered even more: a dear friend who believed in me.
I’ve learned that in leadership, when the nights
grow darkest and the weight feels unbearable, you don’t need a crowd. You don’t
need unanimous approval. You just need one person—one person who sees what
you see, who believes when belief feels foolish. That one voice in the darkness
is worth more than a thousand perfect plans.
Brick by Brick: Rebuilding Trust
The first task wasn’t to draft extensive strategies. It was to rebuild trust—one conversation at a time. Transparency became our currency. Rumors gave way to periodic updates. Backdoor whisperings were replaced with open forums. We didn’t ask people to buy into a grand vision. We built that vision together, brick by brick, with their hands as much as ours.
Processes followed, not from handbooks, but from sheer necessity. Clear decisions, fast feedback loops, relentless communication—this became the scaffolding that held us together. The chaos didn’t vanish. But we learned to navigate through it, guided by a shared compass.
Financially, the hard choices came—and they came fast. We trimmed expenses, but never at the cost of dignity.
We renegotiated vendor contracts, scaled down bloated service agreements, and moved our offices to more modest, functional spaces that suited our needs without the unnecessary frills. Every line item in the budget was scrutinized; every cost justified.
We cut down on waste whether it was unused subscriptions, redundant processes, or inefficient systems—redirecting those resources to what mattered most. The goal wasn’t just to survive; it was to ensure that every amount spent aligned with our mission and kept the heart of the organization beating strong.
We focused on initiatives that mattered the most—the ones that paid the bills and, more importantly, the ones that rekindled our collective sense of purpose as an organisation. Meetings with partners and stakeholders shifted—from polished, rehearsed pitches to raw, honest conversations. Surprisingly, honesty sold better than perfection ever could. Vulnerability became our strength, not our weakness.
The Resistance and the Resolve
Not
everyone embraced the changes. Some resisted openly, others silently. But the path remained
the same: listen
deeply, act decisively. Compassion stood beside firmness. Where
necessary, we helped people find their exits with grace, acknowledging that not every journey continues on the same path.
There were nights when doubt gnawed at me. Nights
when walking away seemed like the sane choice. But in those moments, I
remembered the roads—the dusty trails, the mountain hikes, the mismatched
B&Bs. They had taught me something no leadership seminar ever could:
resilience is not a skill – it is a decision. A decision you make, one
uncertain mile at a time.
Turning the Tide
And then, slowly—almost
imperceptibly—the cracks began to mend.
At first, it was just a shift in tone. The guarded
silence that once filled staff meetings gave way to tentative voices, testing
the waters of trust. Staff and board members who had once counted down the days
to the offices' closing—who had mentally packed their bags—began speaking about
new ideas, fresh possibilities. They no longer just showed up; they had a
purpose.
Conversations that once revolved around how much longer we can hold on shifted
toward what’s next and how do we make it better? I
remember when a long-standing board member, who was previously sceptical
about everything, started offering suggestions—not critiques, but solutions. It
wasn’t grand, but it was a sign. The ice was breaking.
Externally, the shift echoed. Partners who had hovered at arm’s length,
watching and waiting for signs of collapse, began leaning in. First came
emails, then phone calls laced with curiosity rather than skepticism. One
partner, who had all but written us off, asked for a meeting. That conversation
led to a renewed funding stream—modest, but symbolic. Trust was returning.
Hope, once a fragile
ember buried beneath layers of cynicism and fatigue, began to glow. You could
feel it in the energy of the team, the way laughter crept back into the
meetings. People began celebrating small wins: a successfully delivered
projects, a positive testimonial, a new partnership formed.
But importantly—there wasn’t a single, defining moment when everything turned around. No banner in the sky. No dramatic announcement. Instead, there were hundreds of small moments, each one adding another stone to the foundation beneath our feet. A candid conversation where grievances were aired. A courageous decision that prioritized people over money. A partner willing to take a chance, again. Each moment reinforced the next, creating a ripple effect that spread quietly but steadily through the organization.
One day, we looked up
and realized we weren’t just surviving anymore—we were moving forward. Initiatives
that had been stagnant revived. Members who had once withdrawn now opted
to be part of the system. The narrative had changed—not just what we said
about ourselves, but what others said about us.
We hadn’t just mended
the cracks. We had rebuilt the walls, stronger and more resilient.
And in doing so, we found not only organizational recovery but a renewed sense
of who we were and why we existed.
The Road Worth Taking
Looking back, what began as a job became a
journey—one that didn’t just lead to organizational recovery, but to personal
transformation. Leadership, I learned, isn’t about titles or authority. It’s
about walking the rough roads, standing in the uncomfortable spaces, and
choosing—again and again—not to give up.
It’s not the easiest path, or the most popular
one. But for those brave enough to walk it, every mile shapes you in ways
comfort never could.